


All I Want For Christmas

by tahirire



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst and Humor, Gen, Prompt Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-12-25
Updated: 2008-12-25
Packaged: 2017-10-26 05:12:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/279081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tahirire/pseuds/tahirire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the Prompt: Sam, gingerbread house, chocolate icing, picture, “I don’t remember it looking this shabby.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	All I Want For Christmas

December 2007

 _“I know. That’s why I can’t.”_

 _“What do you mean?”_

 _“I mean, I can’t just … sit around, drinking egg nog pretending everything’s ok when I know next Christmas you’ll be dead.”_

December, 2008

Sam would rather jump out another window than leave Dean alone right now, but it’s been three weeks since his brother broke down on the side of the road, and he can’t watch Dean pretend everything is ok anymore, he just fucking _can’t._

When the final tear fell Sam felt the door close again, damming up the flood of emotions Dean fought so hard to hold at bay. Mostly, Dean has played his part well. But in the mornings when his eyes first open, if Sam looks fast enough, he can see the helplessness and loathing in Dean’s shattered gaze. He knows if he blinks he’ll miss it. It’s a once a day experience. Today, Sam feels like skipping the ride.

Because every time he sees that look, he comes just _that_ much closer to telling Dean the truth. That he doesn’t care what Dean did in Hell. That it wasn’t his fault.

That he wishes Dean had given in sooner, because then Sam wouldn’t have to imagine his brother suffering for 30 years, longer than he’s even been alive, all because of him. That he can’t bring himself to care about the others.

And ok, maybe he’s been drinking. No one can stay on the wagon forever.

Anger, Sam has learned, is like jet fuel. It burns hot and strong for a moment, but it flares out just as fast and leaves no reserves behind. He’s learned to keep himself in check; go the slow burn instead, but this morning, looking at the faint glimmer of stars falling to the early dawn, he feels like letting the flames consume him.

 _“You know what you gotta do.”_

 _“No. I’m not doing that anymore.”_

 _“Sam –“_

“ _I_ said _no.”_

He blinks slowly, turning down a quiet side road. Nothing but the motel and one lowly gas station as far as he can tell, no early morning commuters, either. He starts to tremble, lets the rage swell high. The surge builds at his fingertips, and he focuses his hurt towards the cold, unfeeling stars.

“You.” Sam whispers, ignoring the voice in the back of his mind that is telling him _this is a bad idea_ , “ _Bastards_.” The nearest street light explodes in a shower of searing sparks, and he doesn’t flinch, he just keeps on walking.

“Would it have _killed_ you to show up a little sooner? One _month_ ,” he hisses, clenching his right hand into a fist, marking the way the asphalt cracks underneath his feet. “One _month_ sooner and he wouldn’t wish he couldn’t _feel._ ”

His hazel eyes narrow, dark whisper of thought running through his mind, tightening in his gut with stark realization. “Then he wouldn’t want to be one of you.” he states.

Just like that, the rage evaporates, replaced by hurt and fear. It takes the searing power with it. Sam blinks, dazed, as he takes in the site of the damage he caused in the empty street.

 _Holy crap._

“You know, being out without a hex bag and going all Dark Phoenix when there’s _angels_ after your ass probably isn’t the very best idea right now, Sam.”

He doesn’t jump. She hasn’t been able to sneak up on him in a long time. He turns, expecting to see irritation in her dark eyes. But she’s just standing on the side of the road, arms crossed, looking thoughtful. He nods weakly, running a hand through his hair. _It’s too long_ , he thinks suddenly. _Need to cut it._

He must look a little lost, because Ruby sighs in resignation. “What’s wrong?”

Sam hesitates, but he needs to talk right now. Ruby won’t care if he skips the details. “Dean … doesn’t want to feel anymore.”

Her eyes narrow, but she doesn’t interrupt.

“And Anna said … they can’t, and I don’t know, why him, maybe that’s their _plan_ , you know?” He mumbles, kicking at a clod of loose dirt.

She nods slowly, taking it all in. “Sam?” she asks finally.

“Yeah?”

“Have you been drinking?”

He stares at the ground, rueful smile forming on his lips. “It’s Christmas,” he whispers, throat raw.

It’s not that he’s ungrateful. It’s not like he wants them to cut their own tree and hide inside from the snow and build a gingerbread house. He only wants them to be _safe_. He wants Dean to be _whole_.

Lost in thought, he startles as her arms wrap around him, but then he holds her back, leans down to bury his face in her hair. She sighs deeply, resigned.

“If I help you with Dean, just for Christmas - will you promise me … _again_ … no more drinking?” she mumbles into the front of his shirt.

He shrugs. What the Hell. Heaven doesn’t seem to care.

“Yeah, ok.”

~*~

Broaching the subject of time off is never very easy with Dean.

“C’mon, man, please? Just a day or two. Just over Christmas.”

“Oooooh, no. No, no no no. _No,_ Sam.”

Dean seems adamant, but it isn’t like Sam didn’t see this reaction coming. He leans forward across the table, resting his chin in his palms and keeping his voice detached. “Because …” He prompts, stifling a grin.

“Because we’re in the middle of the damn _Apocalypse,_ genius!” Dean makes a fluttering motion with his hands that is too rapid for Sam to track, and goes on to add, “What would the angels say?”

Rant seemingly over, the fluttering hand motions cease and both appendages settle for collapsing in a show of exasperation next to the empty basket of cheese fries.

 _Score_.

On the inside, Sam’s grin is struggling to break loose. On the outside, he adopts a pious expression, giving the matter some thought.

“Well … I think they’d say that Christmas is Jesus’s birthday,” he intones reverently.

Dean just stares at him. Then he blinks. Then his eyes narrow.

Sam waits expectantly.

“You are such a tool.” Dean announces.

Sam releases the grin then, full force, and pretends he can’t see the way Dean relaxes.

“I’ll get the car.” He beams.

Some days, it’s almost too easy.

~*~

Sam springs for a nice hotel for once. A _really_ nice hotel. With doors on the inside of the building and everything. Near Atlantic City.

Sam watches from the adjoining room as Dean takes in the leather sofa, flatscreen TV with full cable access, loaded minibar and fridge. His brother whistles slow. “Damn, Sammy. Last time we were here…” he trails off, and Sam winces.

Last time they had several grand, they still stayed in a dump, and they barely lasted a day before abandoning the trip altogether, Dean still pissed about Sam killing the crossroads demon, Sam pissed Dean hadn’t thought of it sooner.

“Anyway – I don’t remember it looking this shabby.” Dean teases, tossing Sam an approving grin. “Seriously Sam, how’d you pay for all this? We got a dead Aunt I don’t know about?”

Sam clears his throat, shrugs, turns away into his room. “Saved up a little,” he evades. Something in the corner catches his eye. _No way_. “Hey, Dean! Come check out the icing on the cake!”

“Is it chocolate icing?” Dean yells hopefully.

“Dude. Not _real_ icing.” Sam rubs the bridge of his nose, fighting down a smile.

Dean peeks around the door frame, eyes going wide as he takes in the massive Jacuzzi tub. They exchange an awed glace. Sam thinks he might actually be able to _stretch_ in it, and he sees a heated game of rock, paper, scissors in his immediate future.

Dean grins, puts a hand on his stomach. “Hungry? Let’s hit that fancy joint downstairs. I’m starvin’.”

Sam nods absently, trying to remember the last time Dean actually ate a _meal_. He can’t. He pulls his jacket back on, feeling in his pocket to double check he has what he hopes he won’t need. “Sure, fine.” He replies.

“Then we can hit the strip,” Dean continues. “What do you want for Christmas Sammy, huh? Picture with Santa?”

Sam swats him on his way out the door. “Shut up.”

~*~

They slide up to the bar smoothly, and Sam watches as Dean spins in his chair, casually marking potential targets.

“Hey,” Sam says, snapping his fingers, “none of that. We go legit this trip. I have money, and I really don’t want to spend Christmas in _jail_.”

Dean has the nerve to look offended. “Psh. Like I’d get caught.” He said. Sam just stares. “Ok fine, good point,” Dean grumbles, signaling to the bartender for another shot.

 _“I found a spell, but it’s not precise science, ok? It’s more like a potion. You have to be careful. The more he gets the longer the effects will last.”_

Dean is three shots in and showing no signs of slowing down. He smiles and makes small talk, but his hand is shaking on the glass. Sam nudges him in the direction of a pretty girl, the kind that usually makes his brother tell him not to wait up, and gets almost no response.

 _“I mixed the ingredients; what you block is up to you. Add the ones you want to the incantation, stir it four times counter-clockwise, and pour it back into the bottle._ Don’t _screw up my wording, you understand?”_

The girl notices Dean right away, though, and she isn’t so easily discouraged. Dean’s deflections are smooth, polite, but Sam doesn’t miss the way his knuckles grip the edge of the bar, body language practically screaming _stay away from me_.

 _“One drop is one day, Sam. And for the record, this is a really bad idea.”_

Sam tips the small bottle over Dean’s shot glass behind his back, sets it back on the bar as ‘Danielle’ finally wins the war. Dean gives Sam a look that’s half apology, half _save me_ , and slams it back. “Don’t wait up, Sammy,” he sighs, abandoning his half-hearted attempt at a smirk.

Sam offers a nervous smile in return. “Merry Christmas, Dean.”

~*~

It’s not even two hours later when the front door of their suit opens, only to slam shut with a resounding _bang._ Sam looks up from his sprawled position on the plush comforter of his bed just in time to see his brother fly into the bedroom. Sam’s stomach takes a dive. Dean looks _pissed_.

“You did this, didn’t you?” he snarls, throwing his arms into the air.

Sam’s concern for his own life, which is clearly on the line, is overridden by a sudden rush of worry that maybe he screwed up worse than he thought. “God, Dean, what happe-“

“You DID THIS TO ME!” Dean shouts, thumping his open palm to his chest.

Sam sits up slowly and tries not to flinch as he moves to the edge of the bed. He can almost _feel_ the force of Dean’s anger in the room. “Dean, I was just trying to help, I swear, I –“

“Explain to me, Sam, just how _this_ was supposed to _help_. Me.” Dean bites out the words, eyes blazing.

Sam holds out his hands in a gesture of truce. “Ok look, you’ve been … well, lately, and I just thought that if you … we thought if you could get a break …”

“WE?? Who the Hell is we, Sam!” Dean thunders, and now Sam is sure that if there are dogs in this neighborhood, they’re gonna start barking any minute.

He _really_ doesn’t want to answer, but hey – in for a penny. “Ruby said if I –“

“ _RUBY_ SAID? The HELL, SAM!!” Suddenly Dean is right in his space, hauling him up from the bed by the front of his shirt. Someone somewhere is talking really fast, babbling, and slowly Sam realizes that it’s _him_.

“She made the potion for me, alright? I thought if you didn’t have to feel for a few days, mayb-“

“ _Not having feelings_ isn’t the same as NOT FEELING!” Dean yells, blinking fast, voice almost a whine.

Sam blinks.

 _Oh_.

Sam feels his lips twitch.

“Um,” he offers eloquently. There is a traitorous feeling in his gut that might be delirium, and he swallows hard, praying to God that the feeling doesn’t break free and turn into the last nail on his coffin.

It must be working because Dean’s grip relaxes a little. His green eyes narrow, pinning Sam. Sam doesn’t even want to _breathe_. “Don’t you _dare_ laugh.” Dean whispers, threat implied.

With a blinding flash of clarity, Sam realizes that Dean is _embarrassed_. “Uh – w… I - must have mixed up the translatio-“ he stammers.

“Ya THINK?” Dean turns him loose and stalks across the room to sink wearily onto the other bed, dropping his head in his hands.

“It’ll wear off, Dean, I swear.” Sam says, wanting more than anything to wipe the dejected look off of Dean’s face.

“It better,” comes the muffled reply.

Sam takes a seat next to his brother, careful to keep his eyes straight ahead. “I promise, dude.Twenty-four hours.” He says. And then, because he needs to say it, “Dean, I’m sorry.”

Dean doesn’t readily respond, and Sam is just starting to eye his soft, plushy bed mournfully, wondering if he’ll be sleeping on the couch, when he feels his brother’s shoulders begin to shake.

Sam’s throat tightens sympathetically. _Fantastic, Winchester, you made your brother cry._

A high, desperate sound filters through Dean’s hands. Sam winces, trying to think of something intelligent to say, something _quick_ , because he can’t stand watching his brother fall apart _again_ , he just _can’t_.

Dean’s shoulders give a jerking heave, and the strange sound gets louder.

“Dean…?” Sam asks, leaning closer, reaching out a shaky hand towards his brother. Dean’s head whips up, and Sam jumps at the motion, pulling his hand back like Dean is a hot stove, still waiting for a punch to come. Dean’s eyes are red, tears are streaming down his face, and he’s … smiling.

Just like that, Sam gets it. The strange, unfamiliar sound is _laughter_. It’s been so long he forgot what it sounded like.

Dean’s laugh bursts out full force, and he clutches his sides, gasping for air. “Oh,” he gasps, “Oh my God,”

Sam’s guts give that little lurch again, but this time he lets the feeling take him over. He tries out a cautious grin. Dean is howling, practically clinging to Sam’s arm, shaking his head as his face turns beet red from lack of oxygen. He claps Sam roughly on the shoulder, wiping away his tears with his other hand.

“God, Sammy.” He chokes. “You wouldn’t … you can’t eve .. that was the worst sex _ever_.”


End file.
